Page 8 of Devil’s Promise

Angel. What a name…

A name has never suited a man less.

“No. She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry. Little fucking bitch.” My father lets my hair go as he shoves my head forward. I wobble in my heels again but remain standing.

No mask required in this place for my father either. Which scares the shit out of me. What do these men do, that my father has no fear about being his true self?

“Your fiancé is affectionately called the Devil of New York.” He gives a cold laugh. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy here.”

My eyes are watering from the hair pulling. If I wanted to risk the rest of my hair being ripped out, I’d turn around and glare at him again. I don’t.

Instead, I look down at the floor. The only other option is to stare into the eyes of my fiancé, and that is so much worse than any words my father might spew.

But in looking at the floor, I catch sight of his boots instead. Large, black, and covered in all sorts of grime, most notably something that appears like blood.

I swallow as my throat closes. I’m on the precipice of something so much worse than shock therapy.

My father isn’t done. “But her silence does have some advantages.” He grabs my arm, yanking up my sleeve, and exposes the skin above my elbow.

On it are several perfect circular scars.

Cigarettes.

His.

He only smokes when he drinks, a guilty pleasure that can easily be hidden. “Didn’t even gasp.” His voice drops. “You can give it a try. You won’t be disappointed.”

“I want to try,” the man who carried me in crows, closing in on my right. I’m trapped in a wall of male chests, and I wish that the floor would open up and swallow me. This has to be hell. “Give me a cigarette, Axel.”

“Rock,” Angel’s voice rumbles out low and deep, the warning in his tone making my shoulders curl. “Step back.”

Rock doesn’t. He straightens instead.

Angel grabs my arm, spinning me around. I stumble a little, but am held up by first his arm, and then his chest, as my back presses against it as he locks his arm around me. “Let me introduce my wife. No one touches her but me. No one marks her but me.”

“She’s not your wife yet,” Rock spits. “And I was just having a bit of fun.”

This is what he considers fun? Burning women?

I tremble again, trying to hold myself away from the man who’s got me in an iron grip. He tightens his hold, his arm compressing my chest.

“You can leave her with me, Don.” Angel’s fingers are still wrapped around my forearm, my arm looking like a matchstick in his huge hand. He puts more pressure on my skin and I try to shift, his grip hurting.

I have pale skin, always have, that bruises easily.

But he holds tight, not loosening his grip.

“Tsk, tsk.” My father shakes his head. “The wedding isn’t for a few more days, and my daughter is certified pure. Are you trying to get early access to the goods?”

The blood rushes in my ears as my heart stops. My purity has been protected. I’ve never been allowed to date, and my father wanted me to have a spotless reputation, so no man has been allowed to touch me.

But all at once, the realization that I’m going to have to give myself to this man, that he’s going to be free to dominate me in the most vulnerable way possible, has my knees buckling.

He holds me firmly, keeping me from sinking to the ground. “Is she mine or isn’t she?”

I don’t look at him. I don’t look at my father either. I am being sold. For what?

“She’s yours.”